


The Scent of Roses

by sunflower1343



Category: Finder no Hyouteki | Finder Series
Genre: Melancholy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-14
Updated: 2014-09-14
Packaged: 2018-02-17 08:58:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2304041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflower1343/pseuds/sunflower1343
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Feilong thinks of his mother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Scent of Roses

**Author's Note:**

> Written in June, 2005.
> 
> ~~~~~~~~

The scent of roses permeated the air around the garden bench where Feilong sat reading a book. It reminded him of his mother, though he'd never known her. But if he had, he knew that she would have smelled liked that.

He knew next to nothing about her. When he was growing up he'd been told she was from a fine family but had died in childbirth. When he'd asked for pictures, he'd been told there weren't any because the memory made his father sad. 

Now that he knew the truth about his fathers, he wasn't sure what to think about that. But it didn't matter really, because Feilong knew what was important.

He knew she must have been beautiful. Everyone said that she must have been. When he was small he'd imagined her sitting here in the garden, surrounded by flowers. The flowers would turn their faces to her, wherever she sat, mistaking her for the sun. 

Her hair was long, down to her toes. It was heavy and thick, but each strand was as fine as the embroidery thread she'd use on clothes for him. And it was black, so black the stars might appear in it at any moment. 

She dressed in hanfu, layers of red silk of the highest quality, putting the roses to shame. Her hands were like tiny white leaves unfurling from her wide sleeves, cradling the clothes her babe would wear as she plied her needle on them skillfully as a weapons' master. Her posture was graceful, a willow in the breeze. Every movement bespoke her elegance.

When she sat there she would always be thinking of him, her child to come, with a gentle smile on her face, and she'd be singing a song, or maybe thinking up a story to tell him. He knew that had she lived, she would have done those things for him, because she loved him very much.

So on certain days in the spring, when the roses are just blooming and it's warm and sunny outside, he sneaks outside to her garden bench, taking his favorite book of children's stories. And there he sits and reads and hums little tunes, breathing in the scent of roses.

 

~end~


End file.
